


it makes me feel an indescribable type of emotional; the way you call me lovely

by space_boye



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (1963)
Genre: Confessions, First Kiss, Gallifreyan Language (Doctor Who), Gun Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, M/M, My First Fanfic, Near Death Experiences, One Shot, Regeneration, Regeneration Angst (Doctor Who), Romance, Threegado, and he goes to the doctor for help because he doesnt want to die yet, basically the master is out of regenerations, be kind lmao, because thats all i know how to do tbh, cw description of wounds and cleaning up said wounds, listen using gallifreyan as a way to express undying love is great and i will not stop, poetic ramblings, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-05-22
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:40:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24185296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/space_boye/pseuds/space_boye
Summary: Now that was a silly thought. Distraction? From what? It had been a quiet day, no alien invasions, not even a mysterious conspiracy brought about by humans who were oh so quick to point the blame at anyone but themselves. It had been a quiet day, in fact, for the last few months. There hadn’t even been the slightest sound of the Master anywhere since…Ah.
Relationships: The Doctor/The Master (Doctor Who), Third Doctor/The Master (Delgado), Third Doctor/The Master (Doctor Who)
Comments: 29
Kudos: 83





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> my first time actually writing fic so be gentle, i usually write more prose type stuff (poetry/songs/etc) so doing plot oriented stuff is new-ish.  
> Hope it's more or less in character!  
> (Beta-ed by @mindoflily, thank u much!)

The Doctor had, as days go, a fairly non-eventful one. The Brigadier had done his usual rants about military requirements and other bureaucratic nonsense, to which the Doctor responded with his usual quips that annoyed Lethbridge-Stewart so very much, and Jo had long since gone home for the day. Actually, just about everyone had gone home for the day, except for a few miscellaneous night shift guards.

What time was it, again? (It would always bother him that he never quite knew anymore)   
  
He checked his watch. 11:39 PM. Perhaps he should think about at least going into the TARDIS for the night. He looked down at the laboratory table, covered in the scraps of a project whose purpose had already left him. Perhaps there was never one at all, and he was just trying to distract himself.

Now that was a silly thought. Distraction? From what? It had been a quiet day, no alien invasions, not even a mysterious conspiracy brought about by humans who were oh so quick to point the blame at anyone but themselves. It had been a quiet day, in fact, for the last few months. There hadn’t even been the slightest sound of the Master anywhere since…

Ah.

Three months. Nothing from the Master in three months. That shouldn’t be worrying in the slightest, after all, to a Timelord, three months is a mere blip. The Doctor was just getting too used to the damningly slow passage of Earth time, that was all. Three months shouldn’t be worrying, and so the Doctor was obviously not worrying. Why would he be worrying about not hearing a peep from his best enemy in three months? If anything, he should be glad that the Master has finally gotten bored of bothering him and moved on elsewhere.

Unless “elsewhere” meant he was bothering innocent people. In fact, it would be reasonable to worry about  _ not  _ hearing from him, the Doctor thought, because perhaps he’s brewing a plan! Yes, that’s a reasonable thing to worry about! He definitely wasn’t worrying about the Master’s well-being, and  _ certainly  _ not about... never mind, actually. The Doctor nipped that thought in the bud before it had even emerged. He was thinking himself in circles now, which is perhaps why he’d needed a distraction in the first place.

“Ah, well,” he sighed to the empty room and halls around him “ — guess I’ll clean up the mess I’ve made.” 

With that he started to discard bent pieces of tinfoil and crumpled papers scattered around his table, sorting through the mess to pick out whatever screws hadn’t been stripped yet. He was focusing intently on this dull activity, so much so that he didn’t hear the shouts of a young guard down the hall, and the sound of staggered footsteps approaching the laboratory.

“Doctor — ” 

The Master stumbled through the doors, having to catch himself on a nearby shelf so as to not collapse right there. The Doctor whipped around from the table (knocking over equipment in the process), and without even thinking, rushed over to grab the Master, draping the man’s arm over his shoulder and steadying him.

“You— What are you doing here? How did you even—” 

The Doctor looked down at the Master’s other hand, which was clutching his stomach. It was more difficult to see through the dark fabric, but if the way he was grimacing and the even darker stain showing through the fabric was any sign—

“You’ve been shot,” said the Doctor, frozen (not scared, he would never admit to being scared for the life of an enemy).

The Master grunted. “How kind of you to point that out, my dear Doctor, although not exactly helpful.”   
  
“Right! Sorry!” The Doctor helped the Master into the TARDIS and set him gently on the floor of the ship, near one of the walls, immediately rushing to grab first aid.

“How very welcoming of you,” spat the Master. Good to see he hadn’t lost enough blood to affect his snark.

“I wasn’t exactly expecting you!” the Doctor huffed, approaching with bandages and disinfectant. He knelt down beside the Master and reached towards the buttons of his suit, hesitating. “This is alright..?” he trailed off.

“Oh for— get on with it before I bleed out, you old fool!” 

With that, the Doctor unbuttoned the Master’s suit enough to access the wound, which turned out to be plural. He went straight to work with the disinfectant and a pair of tweezers to remove the bullets lodged in the Master’s abdomen. 

“Mind telling me why you have two bullets in your stomach?” 

“I had a bit ooffffffffff—” The Master hissed as a cool pad of disinfectant was placed on the first wound. “— _ trouble _ with the Russian mob.” His eyes closed firmly and his brow furrowed in pain as the Doctor carefully removed the first bullet, a soft  _ plink _ echoing through the TARDIS when it was dropped on the tray nearby. “I was undercover, trying to work my way into their ranks, which  _ clearly  _ didn’t work out quite right.” 

Hm. Well, that would explain why nobody had seen or heard from the Master in months. The Doctor moved on to the second bullet. Something was nagging at him, his eyes squinting in concentration as he removed the ammunition. Something was terribly off.

A second  _ plink _ echoed as the bullet was dropped onto the tray. The Doctor grabbed the bandages and went to work, tightly wrapping the Master’s abdomen to attempt to halt the bleeding. The Master was still clearly in a lot of pain, though he tried to hide it.

“Master,”   
  
“ _ What _ .” he grimaced.

“Master, you’ve been shot twice, came to me for help, and I can tell you’ve had internal damage to your organs. By all accounts you should be regenerating, or at least starting to, yet I didn’t see the faintest traces of regeneration energy starting to fix your wounds.”   
  
The Master glared at the Doctor. He was already starting to bleed through the bandages. This was not good.

The Master sat up suddenly, and then winced, ending up balanced on his elbows instead of fully sitting like he intended. He let out a harsh, pained chuckle.

“Well Doctor, you’ve got me! I am unfortunately out of regenerations, so here I am, dying on the ground beneath you. Isn’t that lovely?” His tone was exceptionally bitter, but it sounded more like he was scolding himself than anything else.   
  
The Doctor looked taken aback. 

“Why would that be lovely? Whatever gave you the idea that I wanted you to die?”

He practically shouted those last few words. The Master grinned.

“Why not? I am your enemy after all,” his breathing was getting heavier and more ragged now. "isn’t this what you’ve always wanted?" 

This wasn’t a trick. The Doctor would know if this was a trick, he always did, there were always tells, and this wasn’t a trick. The Doctor felt a pit in his stomach. 

He crouched down again, removing the now blood soaked bandages and placed his hands over the Master’s wounds. He closed his eyes, concentrating.    
  


“Doctor, what are you—”

The Doctor hushed him as his hands started to glow faintly of gold.

“Oh no no no, Doctor don’t you dare! ”The Master tried to scoot away but he hadn’t the energy. He had lost too much blood, and it was only because of Timelord endurance and his own spite that he was still conscious. Tendrils of regeneration energy stemmed from the Doctor’s hands to the holes in the Master’s stomach, weaving in and out of skin and tissue like a ghost, starting from the inside out.

“You’re wasting—!” He closed his eyes, as nobody ever said the healing process would be any less painful. Organs and skin were slowly stitched back together, with new tissue forming to look like nothing had ever happened in the first place, if it weren’t for the blood on the abandoned bandages and the hands of both men. The Master didn’t open his eyes even when the Doctor pulled his hands away. He was scared of… something. He wasn’t sure what.

“You’re alright now. Might be sore for a bit, but you aren’t going to die anymore.” The Doctor said, finally.

The Master finally opened his eyes. Despite the nonchalant way the Doctor had delivered the phrase, and the fact that the pit in his stomach had somewhat lifted, he knew concern was still written all over his face.

The Master sat up properly, slowly this time, studying the Doctor’s face as he leaned back against the TARDIS wall.

“Why did you do that?” he blurted out, rather unlike himself (although he had nearly just died).

The Doctor rubbed his hand on the back of his neck (thankfully, the blood on his hands had dried). “Well, I uh, suppose it would have been very unbecoming of me to let you die, even if you are my enemy.” Enemy. That last word stung more than it usually did, and the Master did not know why. The Doctor hadn’t answered his question well enough.

“You used up regeneration energy to heal me. You.. you sacrificed a guaranteed part of your  _ life _ to fix me.”   
  
The Master stopped speaking, letting the unspoken “ _ why?”  _ hang in the air as he stared into the Doctor’s eyes, which were darting around everywhere except in his direction. They were enemies. The Doctor hated him. So why was he here, alive?   
  
The Doctor broke the awkward silence. “...You came to me for help”.

The Master didn’t respond. He had done that, hadn’t he? Why was he so sure that out of anyone, the Doctor would help? He already knew he was going to die from those bullets, so why did he go to the Doctor? Had he, perhaps, foolishly hoped that this exact thing would happen? No, of course not, why would he ever—

“You came to me for help and so I helped you. I’d never.. I’d never let you die if I could do something to fix it.”

The Master looked terribly surprised, and the Doctor wasn’t sure whether or not to be offended. “I thought you hated me.”

“Why— How could I ever? I’ve known you for as long as I can remember, all of my life. We may have gone very different ways, but I—” He stuttered, like he was about to haphazardly say words that he had done his very best to not think about, not even believing them to be safe in his own mind. “—I’ve never hated you. If you thought that, why did you come to me?”

The Master didn’t know how to answer that, and was still trying to figure it out in his own head. 

“I don’t— you—” the Doctor cut him off. 

  
“You secretly hoped I  _ didn’t _ hate you just enough to save you, didn’t you?”

The Master turned away. “Hope makes it sound like one of your foolish lovable fancies.” he said bitterly, although he did not deny the Doctor’s claim.

The Doctor scooted up next to the Master, sitting next to him with his head back against the wall. He was letting himself get close, closer at least. He wanted to say he didn’t know why he was doing that, but he did. He took a deep breath.

“I will never hate you, never. I will always try to save you, and when I cannot I will find someone who can. I would fold time into origami cranes for you just so you could get a tiny amount of joy out of something so large being made into something so small and pointless, and then I’d put it all back, smoothing out the wrinkles for you when you got bored. I would make a universe for you if that were possible, Master, I’d—”   
  
“Oh, do shut up.” the Master said, leaning in and breaking off the Doctor’s confession with a kiss, and if the Doctor hadn’t known any better, he may have thought those were the start of tears in the Master’s eyes (they were, although the Master would never admit to it).

The Doctor made a rather undignified squeak of surprise but did not protest, having wished for this to happen far, far sooner. He leaned into the kiss, turning and placing his arms so they draped over the Master’s shoulders. The kiss tasted of ice and fire and copper, and it was like two binary stars, meant to be together,  _ locked together _ , revolving around each other without ever colliding and causing the destruction of one another. 

The Doctor quickly took charge of the kiss, entering into the Master’s mouth.

The Master let him.

  
  


  
When they broke apart, the Master was breathless despite his respiratory bypass having kicked in long before. He and the Doctor stared into each other’s eyes, arms wrapped around each other as they sat on the floor of the TARDIS, and he felt far calmer than he had in at least a hundred years.

the Doctor was the first to speak, and oh, what a beautiful sentence it was.

_ “I love you.” _

And the Master said it back, oh he said it back, and with that he said a word in Gallifreyan that could never possibly be translated fully, as it meant so much more than the human mind could ever comprehend. Something along the lines of:

“ _ I would burn for you,”  _ something he had done before,

_ “I would tear the universe apart to find you,”  _ something he has nearly done more than once,

_  
_ _ “Always, forever,”  _ a concept so novel to Timelords, who know that everything must end and that ‘always’ is but a hope, a foolish promise that cannot be kept, and,

“ _ I would live and die for you, give up my everything if it meant that you’d be alright.” _ _  
_ _  
_ Something only a fool would say, but he would say it now.

Some say that Gallifreyan sounds like music to human ears, and if that’s the case, then that word was truly the Doctor’s favorite song.

  
  



	2. Scene artwork

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I drew a bit from the fic in response to an ask over on my ask blog [Ask The Masters](https://ask-themasters.tumblr.com)

> _“Doctor, what are you—”_

> _The Doctor hushed him as his hands started to glow faintly of gold._

> _“Oh no no no, Doctor don’t you dare! ”The Master tried to scoot away but he hadn’t the energy. He had lost too much blood, and it was only because of Timelord endurance and his own spite that he was still conscious. Tendrils of regeneration energy stemmed from the Doctor’s hands to the holes in the Master’s stomach, weaving in and out of skin and tissue like a ghost, starting from the inside out._

> _“You’re wasting—!” He closed his eyes, as nobody ever said the healing process would be any less painful._


End file.
